By Andrew R. Duckworth
There are times when I drive by
The dry, dead fields with twisted trees,
With limbs that crack in the winter breeze,
Awaiting a new round of freeze.
Those trees were once green with life,
But they haven’t had green in some time,
Trees that have long outlived their prime
Of life in their majestic sublime.
But times change, and life is changing,
In a world caring not for the living or dead,
Where the caring kind have already fled,
Leaving bitterness in their stead.